Dear Diary
by annafan
Summary: I know it's been done before, but I couldn't resist. Éowyn and Faramir's diaries from the Houses of Healing. Part of the "Silk Road" series (Howzat, and Whenas in Silks).
1. March 16th

**March 16** **th**

 **Faramir's Diary**

The warden has suggested I keep a diary. Make-work if ever I encountered it! Still, I might as well fill my time somehow as I am confined to this place for quite a few days to come. I still feel ghastly. Every so often, quite unpredictably, I am hit by waves of tiredness and a chill like the threat of death. I'm also filled with fears, both imagined (the aftermath of the Black Breath I'm told), and real – in particular, a strange sense of unease at the thought of my father's death. No-one will tell me the details, so instead my imagination is hard at work, and nothing it comes up with is good. I have these half-remembered fragments, but I can't tell what is real, and what is my over-wrought, fever-addled brain making things up.

One piece of good news. Ioreth has just told me that tomorrow I can get out of bed and walk in the gardens. Thank the Valar. If I have to stay in this tiny bed, in this tiny cell for another day, I shall run completely mad.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

So, apparently I am to keep a diary. Writing about my fey moods will help me to overcome them, supposedly. Which seems a singularly pointless task. Firstly I don't for a moment believe it will work. Secondly I don't see the point of shaking off my fey mood in any case. The whole world stands on the brink of ruin and destruction: a fey mood seems to me to be an entirely appropriate reaction. And thirdly the one thing that would genuinely lift my mood – the chance of an honourable death in battle – is denied to me because I am stuck in bed, arm splinted, feeling weak as a kitten.

And Béma, how I miss my uncle. My thoughts keep circling to his death. He was the nearest I had to a father after my own died. No, that's wrong, that makes him sound like second best, and he wasn't that. He was entirely himself, first and most beloved uncle and foster-father. And my brother – I am terrified he will die too. I want to be there by his side, to protect him, to be with him, to die with him if needs be.

Gods, isn't it funny how real emotions throw imagined ones into sharp relief. Knowing that I have lost one of those dearest to me, may lose the other – my foolish fancy for the Lord Aragorn seems to have evaporated like so much mist in the early morning. All I feel towards him now is embarrassment.


	2. March 17th

**March 17** **th**

 **Faramir's Diary**

Buggeration. I have just made the biggest fool of myself imaginable. How Boromir would have laughed if he'd been here to witness it. At least it has proved a slight moment of light relief. My first day out of bed, still feeling rough, walking in the garden to see if the fresh air would clear my head. Suddenly I heard the Warden, calling out to me, and I turned and (Boromir would definitely laugh at this) found myself face to face with a woman so beautiful I thought I would pass out. Or perhaps I had passed out and was hallucinating.

It didn't take any great mental agility to work out who she was (which is just as well, because my reserves of mental agility seem to be at a singularly low ebb right now). Hair that blonde – so blonde it seemed like someone had trapped the rays of the sun and turned them into hair – it had to be the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, the slayer of the Witch King. Glad someone got the bastard in the end. Though from the look of utter desolation on her face, I'm pretty sure she got a dose of his breath too.

We talked for a while, and it was one of the most depressing conversations I've ever had. She wanted (broken arm and all) to ride off after her brother and the heir of Isildur – not because she thought she could achieve anything, but because she wants to die. It seems somehow a sin against the very fabric of Illuvatar's creation that one so fair should want nothing other than death. Not only was she in despair, she was also very difficult to talk to. The slightest attempt at sympathy on my part got interpreted (if the look of disdain on her face was anything to go by) as my being patronising. Still, I managed to persuade her that it would be futile to attempt to follow them. Ever silver tongued, I consoled her with the thought that we might all die anyway (never let it be said that I don't have a way with the fairer sex). And placated her with the offer of a room that faced east (where some men might have offered pearls and rubies and rare perfumes from southern lands, I offered a small casement that opens over a battlefield).

Actually, no, scratch that. Let it be said loudly and frequently that I don't have a way with the fairer sex. Because then I had a fit of what can only be described as verbal dysentery. There I was, confronted with a sublimely beautiful, suicidally depressed, and very prickly, defensive woman, and what did I do? Started spouting all manner of crap about "flowers fair and maidens fairer..." The look on her face! Just as well (by all accounts) her sword disintegrated after she'd used it to kill the Nazgûl.

As I say, Boromir would have laughed fit to burst. He always used to tease me about how hopeless I was with women, but even by my customarily low standards, this was a spectacularly bad reading of the situation. But it just goes to show how truly desperate she is – somehow, she has agreed to meet with me in the garden tomorrow. Elbereth alone knows what I will find to talk to her about. Not "flowers fair and maidens fairer..." She might well have acquired a dagger by tomorrow, just in case. Or if she hasn't, the embarrassment might spur me to throw myself off the battlements.

Her hair is beautiful, though. And I would do almost anything to find a way of taking away that look of despair.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

Well, I have escaped the confines of my bed. But I am still denied the chance of an honourable death in battle. The warden will not allow it. Of course I tried to argue my case, so he referred my case to higher authority – the Lord Steward of Gondor, no less. Who will not allow it either. And who turns out to be an unctuous bastard.

The most annoying thing is that the unctuous bastard is probably right. Dammit. I couldn't ride and wield a sword one handed.

I suppose I shouldn't call him an unctuous bastard. He was really very civil. Though I could have done without the pity. But that last comment about fair flowers and maidens! I can't decide whether he meant it or not. If he didn't then he's a smarmy bastard who thinks I'm some sort of foolish, vain, empty headed woman whose head can be easily turned by flattery. If he did mean it, then he's even smarmier. I do not like men who flatter.

Béma, what will the warden think of that? Further evidence of my fey mood? Fortunately, since as far as I know he does not understand my tongue, I suppose he will not be able to read this diary. But I have very good reason not to like men who flatter. And I suppose therein lies another reason why my fey mood is in fact not evidence of some weakness of mind on my part but rather evidence of my rationality.

Fairness dictates that I record that the unctuous bastard did not offer his comment unsolicited. I did ask, after all. Ask why he would want to spend time with me. And perhaps I put him on the spot – he could hardly say that he wanted my company to fill the boredom while we waited to die.

At least he was honest about that. Everyone else seems to think pretending all will be well will somehow jolly me along, like telling a child happy fairy stories to take its mind off a nightmare. He was prepared to admit that the situation is doomed.


	3. March 18th

**March 18** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I am still not convinced this diary is a good idea. It seems to me to offer much too much opportunity to dwell on all manner of things better not thought about. For instance (and I know I've written this before, but it is a thought my mind keeps circling, like vultures circling a carcass) the fact that Éomer has ridden off to war, a war from which he cannot possibly return. Scarce twenty thousand men against the forces of Mordor? They will be lucky if any of them survive the first charge.

He was very angry with me – upset, and angry. Relieved too. I don't think I'd really thought what my death would do to him. I suppose I can't blame him for being angry. And he's confused, and frightened. Not so much of death. We've all of us lived with the threat of death for so long now. No, he's frightened of being King. Frightened that he won't be up to the task, that he'll fail in his duties, that he'll fail his people. I can't imagine him failing in any duty set before him. But he doesn't feel it. He's uncertain, for the first time ever. My big brother who as a youth always carried himself with a bit of a cocky swagger, and who as he grew into manhood developed an air of determined confidence. Even when things in Edoras were at their worst, he still seemed to know who he was, how he meant to deal with the situation.

But he doesn't feel that confidence now, I could tell in the brief time we spent together before he left. He's faking it well. He knows to do that much. Even if you're dying inside, you can't let people know that. You have to carry yourself as if your backbone was made of tempered steel. Make them believe that the icy determination you wear as a mask goes all the way to the inside. And eventually it will go all the way inside. Wear the mask until it becomes you.

Aragorn has gone too. I know that it was his hand that drew me back from death. I let the mask slip there, didn't I? Let it slip badly. I would imagine everyone who saw me offer him that farewell cup guessed my feelings. Behaving like some sort of giddy teenage girl. What a fool. And yet a bit of me still sees things as I saw them back then. Mithrandir, accompanied by three figures who seemed to have arisen from the legends of old. A man of great lineage, an elf, beautiful and deadly in arms, and a dwarf, strong and rooted in the stones of the mountains of the north. And the man was strong, bold, valiant and true, and I descended from a line of kings. He seemed proud and worthy, and seemed to offer the chance to restore my pride. And he was comely to look at, grown to a fullness of years but still in the flower of his manhood.

But then as he took that farewell cup, he seemed to look right into my soul. He knew I yearned for him, and I knew in that instant he felt nothing but pity. Gods how I hate pity.

Thank goodness the Lord Steward seems to have realised I don't respond well to pity. Or to flowery speeches. He had the sense to offer neither today. It didn't make the meeting any less awkward, but it did at least make it less annoying. Strangely, he wants to walk in the gardens with me again tomorrow.

 **Faramir's Diary**

Perhaps I can use this diary for some basic book-keeping.

On the credit side of the ledger, the lady has not acquired a dagger. I managed to avoid saying anything about floral or maidenly beauty, and thus did not have to throw myself from the walls. I did not offer her compassion (which she takes for pity) and so did not anger her, at least not visibly. (Though I suspect that whatever goes on in her mind is not readily visible on her face. I wonder why she is so guarded. There must be a reason.)

On the debit side of the ledger, I think I bored her to tears.

She, however, does not bore me; quite the contrary, she fascinates me. Not just her beauty (though that still leaves me tongue-tied, which is a shame, because under normal circumstances, words are one of the things I do best). But everything about her – her bravery, her sadness, her determination. And I can't help but wonder what she would be like if she had ever had the chance to be happy, what she was like before this war, before she rode into battle.

Still I console myself with the thought that while I may be the most boring man she's ever met, it would appear that being on her own in a strange city is an even more boring prospect: she has agreed to walk with me again tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall endeavour to be less boring.

~o~O~o~

 _AN: I have this drafted out, with just a little polishing required on the ending. My aim is to publish "in real time" i.e. a diary entry a day!_

 _TMI Fairy has kindly pointed me at a brilliant cartoon which sums up Eowyn's entry from "yesterday":_ _cdn DOT thedevilspanties DOT com/comics/20030920 DOT gif (replace "DOT" with an actual dot and strip out the spaces). The woman in the cartoon is his headcanon for the perfect modern-day AU Eowyn, and I think I agree with him. (She also has a very Faramir-like boyfriend, or at least what Faramir would be like if he were reincarnated as a modern day hipster!)  
_


	4. March 19th

**March 19** **th**

 **Faramir's diary**

Progress. I managed to draw the lady Éowyn into conversation, by the simple tactic of asking her how on earth she had managed to remain undetected, riding as a woman in a host of men. Apparently the answer is that she is quite tall for a woman and kept her hood pulled well forward. She suspected that everyone was so preoccupied with their impending deaths that they didn't really pay much attention to their surroundings. Though she said she thought quite a few might have started to harbour suspicions after a day or two, but that by then it was too late to challenge her because they couldn't spare the men to accompany her home, and if they admitted to her presence, that's what they'd have had to do. So it was easier for all concerned to continue the pretence. Apparently it is more than likely that Marshal Elfhelm knew. Interesting: I have to meet the man tomorrow to discuss supplies for the small number of Rohirrim left to guard the outskirts of the Pelennor.

The lady has a dry and mordant wit. I asked her about how she had coped with the practicalities of riding with the men: having been a soldier almost all my adult life, I well know how earthy the humour of the rank and file can be. She merely said that she had found the experience "educational". But I couldn't help but notice the slight quirk of her mouth as she said it. How I would love to find a way to break through her reserve and get her to smile. Or even better, get her to laugh.

 **Éowyn's diary.**

I've reread yesterday's entry. Gods, what a miserable train of thought. But then thinking about recent events is pretty miserable and thinking about what is to come is even worse. I suppose that just leaves me with the present. But trapped in this place, all that happens in the present is endless tracts of empty time which leave me with nothing to do except dwell on the past or fret about the future.

I suppose the only exception to this are my daily meetings with the steward. Which makes writing about them as good a topic as any.

I can't help but think about my very first impression of him, before I decided he was an unctuous bastard. My first thought, oddly enough, was "I wouldn't want to meet him on the battlefield." By that I don't mean that I thought him frightening, or unpleasant, or sinister. Merely that he struck me as having that deceptive, wiry strength that means he probably has immense stamina. I've watched it on the training ground. The big, muscular bloke the new recruits put their money on, versus a wiry man like the steward. The wiry man holds off the muscular man with technique. Sooner or later the big man's wind goes. Then the big man finds himself flat on his back in the dust, the other's sword point against his throat.

I have to admit it's a technique I've used. Though with speed rather than reach. I wonder how fast the steward would be? He's definitely got the advantage when it comes to reach. He's a tall man. And deceptive – slender, but his shoulders are broad. If I were to compete with him, it would have to be speed, agility and skill on my part, versus strength and reach on his. So really it does come down to whether he has speed and skill too. Which of us would have the advantage? It would certainly be entertaining to find out, more entertaining than our conversations. Shame neither of us is in a fit state to wield a sword.

Though today's conversation was not quite as stilted as the day before's. He asked me about what it was like to ride with the troops and how I had managed to remain undiscovered. He also asked me how I coped with, as he coyly put it, the practicalities of riding with men. I was almost tempted to tell him.

My reading of most of the Gondorians I've met so far (and as far as I can tell the steward is no exception) is that they're a bit prissy. It would have been so funny to answer him by telling him straight that one of my biggest worries in the first few days was that when we made our very infrequent stops and I went into the bushes to relieve myself, someone else might choose the same bush. And that my worries were not driven by a Gondorian preoccupation with modesty, but simply because if they caught me squatting to piss rather than standing, the game would have been up.

Actually I did have a plan for that eventuality. Admittedly not a brilliant one but it was all I could come up with. Even blokes squat sometimes. I was going to grunt loudly and say in the gruffest voice I could manage, "How's a man supposed to have a decent shit with an audience?"

Maybe I could have tried the line out on the steward for him to judge whether my gruff voice would have passed muster. Or perhaps I could just have sung him some of the songs. The one about the maid of Ulf Hoo would have done. It would have been worth it just to see his face.

But I restrained myself. I am after all the representative of the Riddermark, however unintentionally, and the King's sister. So I simply said that I had found the experience educational.

Though actually the way the steward pressed his lips together, with the muscle at the corner of his mouth twitching slightly – a bit of me wonders if he is quite as prissy as I assumed.


	5. March 20th

**March 20** **th**

 **Eowyn's Diary**

I was right. Gondorians are prissy. Ioreth told me off. Apparently it is most improper for an unwed maiden (me) to spend time alone unchaperoned with a man (the steward). It would appear that I have ruffled some feathers in the dovecote. Though it's anyone's guess quite what they think he and I could get up to in a garden overlooked on three sides by the various wings of the houses of healing and on the fourth by a section of city wall regularly patrolled by soldiers. And that's even supposing either of us had the inclination. Or indeed, given the state of our health, the ability.

I certainly don't. Though I gather that he is considered a handsome man. Once Ioreth had gone, her maid stayed to change the sheets, and my goodness the girl's tongue could run fast enough to rival one of the Mearas. The upshot of her prattling being that, proper or not, she wouldn't say no to being left alone with the lord steward. Eventually (I feel bad about this because I hate the way everyone in this city treats everyone else according to incredibly finely graded beliefs about their station) I had to remind her rather sharply who it was she was talking about so impolitely.

I feel bad because aside from her foolish fancies about his looks, she actually seemed to hold him in high esteem. Her brother is in the city guard, and apparently the lord steward is very well respected by all the troops, not just his own.

Maybe I should describe his looks. (How strange – I find myself writing almost as if I am aiming this at some imaginary audience. Perhaps, if I survive against all odds, I can entertain my nieces-to-be when Éomer finally produces a family, shocking them with tales of their elderly maiden aunt's racy youth spent – oh, the horror – conversing with strange men in gardens entirely unchaperoned! Ha! The Gondorians have an altogether different notion of what counts as "racy" compared to my people.)

I've already mentioned that he's tall and wiry. I suppose "typically Gondorian" about covers it – dark hair, grey eyes. I can't help but pay attention to his eyes. There's something about them that makes you aware that you are in the company of an incredibly sharp mind (albeit one which seems to have no grasp whatsoever on the art of conversation), and also a curious gentleness about them. He has quite a prominent, hawk-like nose and a rather nicely shaped mouth. I have a feeling it could look even nicer if he smiled, but he, like me, seems rather to have lost the knack of doing that. If I were to let myself think about it, Ioreth's assistant is right: he is a handsome man. Fortunately for my peace of mind I think it safe to say that following my recent attempt to make a complete fool of myself in public over a man, I now find myself, mercifully, immune to handsome men.

Anyway, I must put this diary away, for I see Marshal Elfhelm approaching.

 **Faramir's Diary**

Success! I managed to make her smile.

Let me start at the beginning, however. I suppose it was not surprising that Marshal Elfhelm should call first on the Lady Éowyn, and that I should thus find myself in the company of both of them. In an odd sort of way, I think this worked to my advantage. Elfhelm and I had something definite and important to discuss: namely, how in Morgoth's name we were going to feed the Rohirrim left behind. It gave me an opportunity to look as though I knew what I was talking about for once and could finally come across as possessing both some modicum of intelligence and a certain degree of competence. Anyway, the Rohirrim: they were left at Mithrandir's behest. He feared an incursion of troops of the enemy crossing Anduin to the north, somewhere in the vicinity of the border between Rohan and Anórien, then moving southwards to open an attack on two fronts. The Rohirrim are there to guard the rear. (There are rumours of war even further afield, war against the Elves of the Golden Wood, but no firm details have reached Minas Tirith).

As things stand, however, the presence of the Rohirrim gives me something of a problem. The city has barely enough food to support itself: most of the granaries and stores were outwith the walls, dotted about on what was once rich farmland on the Plains of Pelennor. We had, somewhat naively, thought that they were relatively safe within the Rammas Echor, and though my father started to move supplies into the city, I fear he did not do so early enough. I think towards the end his normally accurate sources of intelligence must have led him astray as to the swiftness with which the enemy intended to strike.

I have sent errand riders post haste to Dol Amroth to see if my cousin, who has been left in charge of the principality in the absence of her father and brothers, can organise supplies from the farmland by the coast, but these supplies are unlikely to arrive in anything less than ten days. I'm hoping to get some limited amounts of food from Lossarnach and Lebinnin in the next three or four days. But in the mean time we must make do with short rations and eke out what we have as best we can.

As we mulled over what available foodstuffs we had, Elfhelm mentioned that the riders had been reduced to eating the remains of the horses killed in battle. The Rohirrim are a remarkably unsentimental people: they love their horses almost as much as their children , but have no qualms whatsoever about culling the maimed and lame among them and putting them in the pot. The horses, that is, not the children. Clearly. In any case, this was the point at which I had my brainwave, or perhaps brainstorm.

"Oliphaunts!" I cried.

Both Elfhelm and the lady looked at me as if I had finally and irrevocably gone completely mad. I hastened to try to explain my train of thought to them.

"The mûmakil. There must be enough meat on each carcase to feed half a company, and in this cold weather the meat shouldn't have spoiled yet."

And this was the moment, the glorious moment, when the lady Éowyn smiled – in fact, started to laugh. When she finally got her breath back, she informed us that my words had conjured up a sudden vision of a whole Eored sitting in a circle around the body of a mûmak, slowly roasting above a fire pit. Though where one would get a pole stout enough to suspend the beast above the flames was anyone's guess.

This was also the moment, the glorious, terrible, terrifying moment when I realised that not only was I struck dumb by her beauty and pierced to the heart by her air of sadness, but also that I had fallen completely, shatteringly, irrevocably in love with her.

I am fairly certain that she does not feel the same way about me – no, I am completely certain.

Buggeration. Again.

In an odd sort of way, the current desperate circumstances make unrequited love easier to live with. It is not as if there is much chance of a future to plan for, and thus I am relieved of the burden of trying to woo my love. Instead I can content myself with spending as much of what may be my last days simply enjoying her company. And if friendship is the best I can hope for, I shall count myself blessed indeed.


	6. March 21st

**March 21** **st**

 **Faramir's Diary**

Talking to the Lady Éowyn is a blessed relief. I still cannot remember anything beyond fevered fragments of the day or so before my father's death. But there is something in the way everyone stiffens visibly every time I mention him that makes it clear that something terrible is being kept from me. There is something about the manner of his passing. I think however that my guardians (or perhaps gaolers) underestimate me: I am both tougher than they think me and more tenacious. I shall get to the bottom of what happened. But in the mean time, because my Lady is obviously not privy to whatever it is that is being hidden, I can relax in her company (well, apart from the ever-present risk of making a complete idiot of myself, of course).

I may have overdone the whole relaxation thing, though. I had a really bad night last night – fitful dreams filled by strange images of flames, dreams interspersed by periods of wakefulness. The really annoying sort of wakefulness where every fibre of your body aches for sleep, but your mind whirls like dry leaves being blown in circles by the wind. The result was that I felt exhausted beyond measure this morning. Éowyn and I sat in our customary place, beneath the branches of a beech tree in the gardens here. We talked for quite a while and for once our conversation felt natural and not stilted (to me anyway; she may have just been being polite). We seemed comfortable enough that when there were lulls in the conversation we were able to sit in companionable peace rather than scrabbling around desperately for empty words to fill the silence. But it must have been in one of the longer silences that disaster struck. I fell asleep.

First I try to woo her with frivolous chit-chat about the fall of kingdoms and certain death, then I make a complete fool of myself wittering about flowers fair, then I compound the impression of drooling idiocy by raving about oliphaunts (though at least that made her laugh) and now I fall asleep on her. Well, not literally on her. Though honesty compels me to record that that is a very nice thought indeed. Albeit one which I think I have ensured (by my drooling idiocy) will never come to pass in reality.

Drooling! Oh Elbereth, there's a thought. I hope I didn't.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I am writing this sitting on the grass in the garden, with my back against a tree trunk. Beside me (as seems to have become customary in my life) is the Steward – fast asleep! It seems churlish to note that this is probably the most natural and relaxed he has been in my company. Though in fairness I should perhaps note that today his conversational skills seemed greatly improved. I get the distinct impression that for some reason or other he has stopped trying so bloody hard. The end result is that we seem to get along much better and had really been having quite a pleasant conversation – at least until he fell asleep.

There had been several lulls in the conversation prior to this point, and initially I thought this was another lull, until I heard a quiet, but quite distinct snore! I can't help but wonder what his reaction will be when he wakes up. On experience of the man to date, and taking into account his prissy Gondorian manners, I predict that he will be mortified. Which seems a shame as I am simply amused by this turn of events.

Now that he is asleep I can study his face without being distracted by his eyes – his eyes have a knack of boring into you and commanding your full attention. It was more than a little disconcerting to start with, but then I gradually got the idea that it was just his way – he always gives his full attention to whatever is foremost in his mind. Anyway, now those eyes are shut, I see that his face is pinched and drawn. Funny, it had not occurred to me till now – but of course he is a patient here too, so must have been sorely wounded, and is convalescing, like me. So of course he is tired and not well in body (possibly not well in mind either – there always seems to be an undercurrent of sadness there).

He is curled up on his left side, his hand tucked beneath his cheek. His long legs are folded and his knees drawn up so he manages (despite his height) to look like some sort of animal readying itself to hibernate for the winter. I have the strangest urge to reach out and pet his hair, as if he were a sleeping cat or rabbit. At the same time, I find myself thinking that he must really need the sleep. He looks frail. No, frail is the wrong word. Drawn, exhausted, in need of rest, in need of someone to help him carry whatever burden it is he struggles with. In need of kindness.

I'm staring at what I've just written. What an odd thing to have sprung into my mind. But in all his dealings with others – the Warden, Ioreth, the healers – those dealings I've been present at – in all of them, I've had the sense of him doing his duty, behaving as he thinks they need to see him behave. I don't think he does it consciously, I think it is his instinctive response to others. He can't help but put other people first. But for now he needs to put himself first, while he heals. And I don't think he can see this.

"Unctuous"? I admit it. I was wrong. I mistook politeness and concern for a deliberate but superficial smoothness of manner. The Lord Steward may be prissy, overly polite, massively annoying in his tendency to ferret out one's innermost thoughts (oh those bloody piercing grey eyes of his), but if there is one thing he is not, it is superficial.


	7. March 22nd

**March 22** **nd**

 _Quick AN – I have discovered an interesting glitch in this website's e-mail alert system. If you update less that 24 hours from the previous update, even though it's a new "calendar day" US West Coast time (which I think is where the site is hosted), the system doesn't send updates to anyone. So check back to see which bits you've read and which you haven't._

 **Faramir's Diary**

Earlier we both sat on the lawn beneath one of the trees in the garden. When it was time for lunch, I held out my hand to help her to her feet. Her hand in mine was not at all what I expected. To look at, her hands are small, slender, delicate. But when her palm met mine, I felt callouses to match my own, wrought from years of handling a bow and sword hilt.

So strange. At one and the same time it was disconcerting because it was so different from what I expected, and yet comforting – a sense of connection, of shared experience. Of course, it is not really connection and shared experience, for it is my imagination alone that is conjuring these things. It would only truly be shared if she felt the same way, and I doubt that she does.

Later, as I sat alone at my lunch, I thought back to other meals, to conversations with soldiers as we ate, or drank in taverns. Some men talk of bedchamber as they talk of the battlefield, seemingly seeing women as the enemy to be conquered. Others, kinder and gentler men, grow wistful and talk of the loves they have left behind them. They talk of the softness, the gentleness, the yielding sweetness of their sweethearts. And yet in that instant when our hands met, I knew that I was drawn to the callouses, the steel, the strength in Éowyn. Oh, of course I am drawn to her beauty. But I am drawn more to her spirit which seems to me to be the match for any man.

Aye, her spirit! Yesterday I talked to the halfling, Merry. What a picture he painted of her on the battlefield, helm cast aside, that glorious golden hair blown by the wind, facing the Witch King. "I am no man!" Underneath the icy exterior she presents to the world, there is a fire and a passion. Oh, to have seen her fight.

Merry also gave me some insight into why Éowyn is so reserved. He does not know the full story, but apparently there was a traitor in the court at Edoras who haunted her footsteps. A man of considerable power, evidently, for at one stage he managed to get her brother imprisoned, and was even implicated (though there is no proof) in the death of her cousin, Prince Théodred. This man was Saruman's tool, and had cast spells over King Théoden's mind for many years, so that he could not see what was going on around him in his own court. I cannot begin to imagine how terrifying it must have been for her – to know that this man desired her, and also had the power to overcome anyone who took her side.

And now to other matters. There is something Merry is not telling me about. Every time I mention that I still have not pieced together events in the run up to my time in the Houses, he goes silent, an awkward kind of silence. Everyone seems to react that way. It is almost as if they have been told by someone – by whom? - not to talk to me about it. It is both puzzling and disquieting, and if the aim is to prevent me from worrying then it is having quite the opposite effect.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

Nothing much happened today. I spent the morning in the garden with the Steward, which was a pleasant diversion.

Oh Béma – I just read that last sentence aloud. I have been in this wretched country too long. Even their prissy language is rubbing off on me.

I think I shall go and seek out Merry. At least he speaks the common tongue with a pleasing bluntness much more akin to my own people.


	8. March 23rd

**March 23** **rd**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

An amusing moment earlier! Ioreth (no doubt fed up with my being such a wretchedly irritable patient) sent her young assistant instead to tend to me. Yet another draught of ghastly willow-bark tea. What made it funny was the way he told me about it.

"Goodwife Ioreth is otherwise engaged..." (This on its own made me smile – the poor boy was obviously trying so terribly hard to sound like a proper, grown-up healer.) Then he blurted out, "So she has sent me to give you one instead."

I very nearly said (but mercifully stopped myself) _In your dreams, my lad!_ Fortunately I remembered in time that I was no longer just a girl swapping banter in the tilt-yard with the stable lads, but sister and heir-apparent to the king. So I behaved myself. My second thought was to wonder whether, in any case, whether the words had the same double meaning in Westron (or indeed in Gondor).

The lad's furious blush gave me the answer to this – undoubtedly, they do have the same meaning here.

But more interesting still was the Steward's reaction. His mouth twitched as he (clearly) engaged in a desperate struggle not to laugh. It was a hard fought battle, but he won out in the end... though I suspect only just. And I almost lost my own battle at the sight of the way he looked at me – speculatively, one dark eyebrow raised – almost, I might say, suggestively. Clearly there is a side to him which I had not suspected, hidden beneath the urbanity and surface layer of Gondorian prudishness. No wonder Ioreth's maid has a crush on him. Just as well I am older than she, and know better than to have my head turned by a fair face.

 **Faramir's Diary**

That poor lad! Give her one, indeed. I could see the lady struggling almost as much as I not to laugh. The boy was already completely mortified as it was. I've heard new recruits say such things when first posted to a new regiment – it is safe to say they are never allowed to live it down.

Mind you, our tongues oft let slip things which we don't even admit to ourselves. I wouldn't be surprised if the lad does harbour such desires, well hidden, and that probably only added to his blushes. I shall admit that the moment after he said it, the thought crossed my mind fleetingly: _You and me both, lad, you and me both!_

There, now! I've admitted it. I don't just pine for her beauty, feel pierced by her sadness, feel awed by her strength and bravery. I desire her. Yes, I take back what I said about not being drawn by softness – it has occurred to me on more than one occasion to wonder how soft and yielding the curves of her body would feel beneath my hands.

Dammit... she'd run me through soon as look at me if she knew I harboured such thoughts. Or would she? I think I caught an odd sort of look on her face, an appraising look, as if she'd caught me staring and knew exactly what I'd been thinking. She didn't return the interest, but she didn't seem repulsed either.

And if she were ever to return my interest? Again, my mind goes to the soft curves of her body. But even more to her spirit. Would she love as she fights, with fire and passion?

Dammit, must not think along those lines.

Thank the Valar I've had the sense to write this diary in Quenya.


	9. March 24th

**March 24** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

The oddest thing today. Elfhelm came to see me to discuss the riders, both the ones lying injured here in the houses, and those left on the Pelennor to help guard the city and the road to the north. I discussed the various matters at hand as best I could, but found myself unaccountably wishing for the Lord Steward's company, so that I could ask his opinion. I had not realised how much I valued his advice – how much I have come to rely on his advice in such a very short space of time.

Later, he did come to see me, and I was able to ask him about the things which were troubling me. It is interesting – he does not press his opinion on me. Instead, he asks what I did, and why, and helps me unpick my reasons, and helps me to decide whether they were good or not, whether the decisions were right or not. He seems to trust me to judge for myself, and is content to help me with my own thought processes, rather than imposing his.

Afterwards we sat in a parlour within the houses – it is too gloomy to sit in the garden. We played chess. Somehow it comes as no surprise to discover that the Steward is a ferociously good player. The first game ended in my complete annihilation in short order. The second lasted rather longer, but took all of my concentration just to avoid a repeat of the humiliation. At least I got him as far as cupping his chin in his hand and frowning as he tried to think of the best move. (There is always the possibility that I may have done this by accident, simply by doing something so stupid and out of the common run within chess that it took him a moment or two while he considered the possibility that it might be some unexpected stroke of genius. Of course only a moment, before he realised that it really was _that_ stupid a move).

After the chess, we sat and talked. Or sat and let a comfortable silence wash over us. It is strange how after such a short time I have come to feel so at home in his company. I used to be able to sit like this with Éomer of an evening. We talked of our childhoods, of family. He lost his mother even younger than I. It seems so sad to think of that little boy with only what (by all accounts) was a stern, distant father. Though of course he had his older brother. I recalled meeting the Lord Boromir when he passed through Edoras on his way north. Faramir seemed to want to hear every detail. I think he mourns his brother greatly. I don't even want to think about how much I would miss Éomer. I don't want to think about the fact that some time soon, I may hear the same tidings.

The darkness outside is unrelenting. Over in the east I catch glimpses of a red glow reflected on the clouds which surely bodes ill. There cannot be much time left to us.

 **Faramir's Diary**

I feel like a magpie, collecting shiny treasures that catch my eye. Except that my treasures are more precious than mere silver: a fleeting smile, a look of concentration, a few words where she lets her guard down and trusts me with some of her feelings, a kind gesture. I gather these things to me, and store them in the recesses of my memory, to bring them out and contemplate them in the lonely hours of the night.


	10. March 25th

**March 25** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

And so it is done! The halflings won through, the ring is destroyed.

The eagles also brought tidings that both my brother and Aragorn had survived. I felt almost weak at the knees with relief. Then I was almost sick. Which seems like a very strange reaction to good news.

I feel exhausted, deflated almost. It is a most peculiar feeling. I should feel buoyed up, happy beyond belief, but for some reason I don't. Mostly I feel like crying. Crying for the memory of Théoden King. For all the brave men who fell. For all the women who will mourn them. For all the people, children among them, who died when their villages were sacked.

When the Eagles came, Faramir put his arms around me and kissed my brow. I almost cried then. But I didn't want to. Well, part of me did. It felt overwhelmingly comforting to stand there, held in the arms of a friend, warm, safe. But the other part of me just wanted to be alone. Somehow it seemed too much, too raw – too private. So I ran away instead.

Oh dear! I fear I may have hurt his feelings.

 **Faramir's Diary**

We have won! The Eagles came this morning. It is strange – I sensed the change in mood before they arrived. I stood high on the battlements with the Lady Éowyn, and somehow, with her beside me, I could not believe that anything dark or evil could endure. And now... It is as if the burden of a whole lifetime has been lifted from me. In that moment I felt joy, release, a burst of happiness soaring to the heavens.

The only fly in the ointment is that in a fit of happy madness, I took the liberty of kissing Éowyn – only on the brow (even I am not _that_ much of an idiot). For a moment, I held her in my arms – and yes, her body is all soft curves, and just for a moment she leaned into me – and she almost seemed content to be there. Then she stiffened, moved away, and soon after made her excuses and left.

In short, I have made a complete cake of myself.

There is nothing for it but to get drunk – drunk to celebrate, drunk to drown my embarrassment. Fortunately, Beregond came by earlier – he has smuggled a cask of ale into the dormitory where the walking wounded are recuperating. I shall do my duty and dine with the court worthies, and make sincere speeches of the bravery of those who marched to Morannon and fell there, and less sincere speeches of gratitude to those who stayed behind (the ones, that is, who were not too old to fight – it is them that I find hard to stomach, not the elderly men who cannot wield swords). Then I shall take myself off to what little remains of my ranger troop and celebrate properly.


	11. March 26th

**26** **th** **March**

 **Faramir's Diary**

Dammit, my head hurts like the blazes. What was that rot-gut Beregond purchased to go with the ale? Brandy, he said. Wood alcohol more like! It's a wonder we're not all blind this morning. Still, I've dunked my head in a basin of cold water, downed some of Ioreth's vile willow-bark tea (when I taste it, I think of Éowyn's face, screwed up with distaste, as she drank the vile beverage – and even more of her face, trying not to laugh, when the healer's lad announced he'd come to give her one!). Of course, I doubt Éowyn will speak to me again after the liberties I took yesterday. Not that there is time anyway.

I am now in my study, the study which was until recently my father's, surrounded by paperwork. There are the surveys the engineers have done of the breaches in the walls and the fallen buildings, not to mention the damage to the water courses and drainage systems. Immediately after lunch I intend to make a tour myself to assess the extent of the work and come up with some sort of list in order of importance. My initial feeling is that the water and drainage must be mended first – men die fastest from thirst, and the next biggest danger is disease. (Oh, what a way to celebrate our glorious victory: worrying about the sewers! But it must be done.) I think some large halls should have roofs mended to act as temporary hostels for the families whose houses were damaged in the siege – the outermost circle of the city is one of the poorest, and they have been very hard hit. But we cannot mend all of the individual dwellings at once – that work will take months if not years. For the time being what matters is food, water and a secure roof – and dormitories will do for that.

Aye, food, that's another stack or two of papers. The Pelennor, rich farm land tilled ready to be planted, is now a morass of rotting dead bodies. It could not be more vile if the enemy had salted the earth. (Éowyn told me that Saruman's orcs did this in parts of the west of her country). So I have to write to all the various lords of Anfalas, Belfalas, Lebennin and Lamedon to ask what grain supplies and salted meat they can spare for the people of Minas Tirith. And come up with some sort of trade to sweeten the deal. Elfhelm tells me he has come across one or two intact barns of seed corn which were not put to the flame – perhaps I can offer them wagon loads of this to sow on their own lands in exchange for food.

And of course, it is the end of winter, so there will be precious little in the way of stores left in anyone's granaries. Perhaps stocks of salt fish can be acquired from the coast.

And the Pelennor. I know that Elfhelm's eoreds have been hard at work, burying their own dead and burning the carcases of the orcs and Southrons. I need to see if gangs of men can be sent to help in this task. Perhaps it is a good way of occupying the people of the outer circles, if I can offer some sort of meaningful payment – which will mean coins with which to buy food, if only, in turn, I can organise the food – see above! But some sort of sense of a task to be done and of a means of earning their way is necessary I think – Morgoth makes work for idle hands.

Oh – and more about food. Lord Aragorn set off for Morannon with enough supplies for the outward journey only, so as to leave enough food for the people of the city. I do not think he expected any of them to survive. So now I need to organise wains of food to send to Cormallen too.

I begin to think that my headache is down to much more than simply Beregond's rotgut. What a mess!

Dammit, I miss sitting with Éowyn in the garden, talking nonsense (me, that is, not her – she always seems to talk sense).

 **Éowyn's Diary**

What an odd sort of day. The feelings of anticlimax continue. And I feel lonely. I never thought I'd be reduced to this, but I miss the Steward. I have become used to his company.

Still, I have decided to pull myself together and make myself useful. I may not be a healer, but I can fold up bandages (somewhat awkwardly for one arm is still in a sling) and hand out bowls of broth.

I could even sweep floors but am not allowed to (Ioreth drew the line at letting a "fine lady" do this).

I sent a note with a dispatch rider to Éomer, saying that I was much recovered.


	12. March 27th

**March 27** **th**

 **Eowyn's Diary**

More of the same, I'm afraid. More bandage folding, more broth distributing, more feelings of a strange emptiness. I have realised how little my life has changed. Everyone treats me with such deference, reverence almost, as the slayer of the wraith. But what did I achieve? I arrived too late to save my uncle. We still lost hundreds upon hundreds of brave men. And in the end the whole thing was decided, not by soldiers at all, but by two brave Halflings. I feel as though my efforts were for naught.

But I'm trying not to wallow. So I supplement my bandage folding activities with endless questions: What herbs for pain? What herbs for sleep? Where to press to stop bleeding? How to straighten bones before splinting? And not just what to do, but why it is done. That's the question which always leads to the more interesting answer.

And for the most part, I succeed in keeping myself busy. But as soon as I stop, as soon as I'm alone in my room, the black mood comes sweeping over me again. I know I should just pull myself together, but somehow that doesn't seem to work. And it is getting harder with each day that passes, rather than easier, which seems strange. Almost as if as my body recovers from its injuries, my mind gets weaker.

I miss the steward's gentle kindness.

 **Faramir's Diary**

Another busy day. More sewers, worries about food, worries about water supplies.

Merry came to see me today and we ate a hasty lunch together. I'm still trying to get to the bottom of what makes Éowyn behave as she does – such an odd mixture of bravery and reserve. I don't think I've managed to extract all the pieces from Merry yet. There is something about a traitor in Edoras, which has left her scared and on edge. And of course there were the worries about her brother, but those have been allayed to some extent now. But there's something else, something he hasn't said.

I'm quite good at getting information out of people, though. It's just a question of gently steering the conversation, taking advantage of the things they do want to talk about then making the cross-connections to the things they are more reticent about. But making them feel comfortable at the same time. Sooner or later they usually tell you.


	13. March 28th

**March 28** **th**

 **Faramir's Diary**

Well, I am still snowed under beneath vast drifts of paperwork. Lord Tondir and his son Úron are helping me. Úron fought bravely on the Pelennor and sustained a minor wound – a broken ulna in his left arm, enough to keep him from riding to Morannon. He is by all accounts a very capable commander, and as it turns out, an extremely capable administrator. He is also... what is that euphemism Lord Castamir's aide de camp uses? Oh yes, 'flamboyant'. Very flamboyant. Fortunately I indicated early on in our acquaintance that there was a woman who held my heart, and Úron seemed to take that in good part. Personally, I don't care who he presses up against the wall in some dark tavern of an evening– whether it be a wench or a guardsman – he's a damn good bureaucrat, and I need that at the moment.

Castamir, of course, is about as much use as a colander for bailing a sinking boat. No doubt, however, he will paint himself as the hero of the hour, after the fact, naturally. It will be interesting to see how long it takes Lord Aragorn to get the measure of him. (Predictably, Castamir is one of those who publicly, albeit subtly, cast shadows over Aragorn's claim to the throne, though I think he is wise enough to know that most of the opinion which matters is against him. He is also, quite clearly, opposed to my being the steward. He was a good friend of my father's and values me accordingly – that is to say, he accords me no value whatsoever).

And what of the woman who holds my heart? (And other parts, at least in my dreams – fortunately I didn't have to spell it out in that much detail to Úron). I am keeping well clear, having made such a prat of myself. Eventually her brother will return from Cormallen for Lord Aragorn's coronation, and then they will both return to Rohan, and with time I suppose I can grow comfortable in my bachelor existence once more.

Though at the moment I am not comfortable. Instead, I am mooning – I received a letter from my cousin saying she and her mother were going to Cormallen to see the victorious heroes (my uncle Imrahil and her brothers among them). I penned her a reply, and might have mentioned in passing that I was... not indifferent to the white lady of Rohan. Dammit. I am a fool. Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut... or my quill undipped? (Oh Valar, that sounds like the most dreadful pun for something entirely different.) Anyway, Lothi is sharp as a tack, and although there is no malice in her, I fear I may live to rue the day I told her about my pining.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I am trying to keep myself as busy as possible. Elfhelm helped me to escape from the Houses today. I rode out to the Riders' encampment on the plains outside the city, to pay my respects at the newly-raised burial mounds. It was a sad occasion. We sang songs of the fallen, and raised a cup to speed their souls to the green fields of the hereafter. So many brave men and true, and so many widows and orphans. The thought of them still at home, having not received news, waiting, hope against hope, breaks my heart. The knowledge that one day soon, a rider will appear on the horizon, and at first they will think he is their loved one, but then, as he gets closer, they will see that they know him not, and the premonition will hit them. And then the rider will reach them, and their worst fears will be confirmed.

It is ridiculous. I should be as happy as everyone around me, but I am not. What have I done? Fallen in love with a king-to-be who is to marry the heir of Luthien. Got myself injured but failed to die on the battlefield. Lost my uncle, like losing my parents a second time. What have I to look forward to? Going home to my ruined country, to be my brother's housekeeper (and I will do it gladly, for I love him). But surely over the years I will dwindle into nothingness, then be eclipsed entirely when he takes a wife.

Ioreth looked at me suspiciously earlier and said, "The black breath is harder to shake of than you are prepared to admit."


	14. March 29th

**March 29th**

 **Faramir's Diary**

So, as usual, I have made a mess of things.

Today was as busy as usual, but I managed to snatch a moment to go to the Houses of Healing, under the pretext of checking on the progress of the wounded. Well, it wasn't really a pretext: I do want to see how they are doing – they are brave men and fought well, and gave so much for the defence of this city. But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I had wanted to see Éowyn too.

She seemed rather down, but brightened a bit as I talked to her. She seems to be trying through sheer force of will to shake off the megrims, and has thrown herself into helping the healers. It was fascinating to see how her face changed as she described the things she has learned. She has a lively wit and intelligence and clearly absorbs new knowledge like a sponge, especially if it has practical applications (I suspect she doesn't share my passion for building pointless intellectual castles in the air, but then few people do!)

to my relief, she seemed to have forgotten her momentary stiffness of manner from when I rather rashly kissed her on the forehead. Thankfully I suppose she has decided that I was simply overcome by the emotion of the situation, and has decided to forgive me for my forwardness. In any case, I didn't pursue things further.

Just as well: later I encountered Merry and finally managed to find the missing piece of the jigsaw. So it seems that the lady's heart is already given to another. Another that I cannot possibly compete with. My King. Though I gather that her love is not returned, for he is already betrothed. So it seems I am unrequitedly in love with her, while she is unrequitedly in love with the Lord Aragorn. If I were a detached observer of the vicissitudes of the human condition, I should find this quite amusing in its painful symmetry. But alas, I am far from detached, and instead I find it immeasurably painful, without any appreciation for the symmetry of the situation.

I suppose the only cure for a broken heart is time. I shall throw myself into work (of which there is plenty) and not be so foolish as to waste my time visiting the lady, when in all probability my visits are more of an irritation to her than anything else.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

The Steward came to see me briefly today.

He is very busy. I asked him about the work in the city, and he ran his hand through his hair (I realise that this is a mannerism of his that I have become very familiar with – I find it rather endearing) before reciting an almost endless list, from food and water through to sewage and roofing. He did make me laugh though, by doing an imitation of the major thorn in his side, a lord of the city by the name of Castamir. Apparently the man is a hypocritical, conniving know-it-all who dislikes the Steward for reasons I can't quite fathom. Something to do with the Steward's father, though this doesn't quite add up as apparently Castamir was on good terms with the late Steward. Anyway, the Lord Faramir turns out to be rather a good mimic (at least I assume he is – the whining voice and oily manner certainly made me smile). And his comment about Castamir being about as useful as a colander for bailing a sinking boat made me laugh.

He laughed too. There is something very engaging about his face when he laughs. And something very appealing when he has that slightly wicked glint in his eye when he's making fun of the more annoying politicians he has to deal with. He isn't prissy at all.

Actually, later on the pieces fell into place. I saw Merry, who explained (his cousin had been present at some of the meetings) that Denethor disliked his younger son, or at least thought he was less of a man than his brother. I think I have taken something of an instant and instinctive dislike to the late Steward, for all one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead.

Though Merry didn't seem entirely comfortable around me. He had that edginess that people sometimes get when they feel guilty about something. I can't imagine though why Merry should feel guilty towards me.


	15. March 30th

_Author's note: thank you very much to those of you kind enough to leave reviews over the last few days. As you may have noticed, there seems to have been a bit of a glitch with fanfiction's systems. The review counter is ticking up, I am receiving the email alerts, but your reviews are not showing up and (I'm told) my PM replies to you may not have arrived either. But I'd like everyone to know I have received them and they are massively appreciated, and hopefully you will receive a response in the next few days when the system starts working again._

 **March 30** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I feel a little brighter today, though still frustrated with the amount of time I have on my hands with nothing to fill it. Strange to say, but the Steward's brief visit yesterday cheered me greatly.

I took a stroll on the walls today, and who should I catch sight of but the very same, the Lord Steward, far below me in a nearby square. He had quite a retinue, including a clerk who was earnestly taking notes, and what appeared to be various court worthies. There was an older, pinched-looking man who seemed to be arguing heatedly about something. I could see the Steward looking frustrated. I am guessing the pinched man must be the annoying Lord Castamir.

Faramir's movements seemed weary, but at least he is no longer limping. As he (and his train) passed along the street directly beneath the walls, I looked down as if seeing him as someone who did not know him would. I suppose, because I became used to him in this strange, detached, artificial place, cut off from the real world, I have never really given much thought to him in any other way than as a friend I could talk to – initially awkward and shy, sometimes inept, more frequently entertaining as I got to know him better, always kind and gentle. I suppose I had mentally put him into the same compartment in my mind as one of my brother's lieutenants, a kindly but somewhat hopelessly shy man who blushed every time a woman talked to him, and who became tongue-tied in my presence. Éomer always told me this was because he had a huge crush on me. (Not that I'm suggesting for an instant that Faramir has a crush on me, that would be absurd – but there is something of the same awkwardness about his manner. Or rather, there was. He seems to have got much less awkward of late, and is really rather good fun to be with.)

But actually, seeing the Steward going about his normal business (or perhaps abnormal business – I don't suppose rebuilding a city decimated by siege is a daily occurrence in even the life of Gondor's de facto ruler) I realised he exudes an air of command, of quiet confidence and competence. He is also nobody's fool – I saw him finally snap something at the pinched-looking man which seemed to put the man firmly in his place.

He is also a fine figure of a man, tall, broad-shouldered, fair of face. No wonder Ioreth's silly maid has had her head turned.

Reading this back makes me doubly convinced that I have _far_ too much time on my hands.

 **Faramir 's Diary**

What a sod of a day! Castamir insisted on coming with me on my morning tour of the city, and seemed intent on opposing me at every turn. Opposing me just to be cussed, not out of any conviction on his part. Even things he should have agreed with me on (for I know his views and business interests from hearing him discuss things with my father in the past) he was still bloody awkward about, just for the sake of it. Eventually I lost my temper with him and told him to stop being such a bloody fool.

How I wish I could sit in the garden with Éowyn again. I've a feeling I've written these exact words before, but to be honest, I'm so knackered after today I can't even be bothered to turn back a couple of pages to find out. I do remember writing of my resolve not to see her, as her heart is given to another. But, dammit, hope has this annoying habit of welling up where it is least wanted. This infuriating, nagging voice at the back of my mind keeps saying "She cannot have him for he is already given to another, but you are free, so why not woo her and try to win her heart?"

The trouble is, I don't think I'm much good at wooing. Maybe I could just tell her honestly how I feel! It would certainly have the virtue of being novel. In my mind's eye, I can just see Boromir, as if he were sitting across the table from me. This is the point, as I unveiled my cunning plan, where he would simply let his head fall forward and bang against the desk. Probably giving a groan as well. Having said that, I tried the "flowers fair and maidens fairer" approach when I first met her, and we know how successful that was.


	16. March 31st

**March 31** **st**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

Another day on which I seem plagued by the black breath. I keep thinking about what it will be like to return to Edoras. No Wormtongue, thank the Sacred Earth Mother, but everywhere somehow feels as though it will be haunted by his memory.

I sat in the garden earlier, trying to shake off this black mood. Part of that involved making lists of all my nice memories from before the worm. Item: the day Éomer gave me my first proper sword, instead of a wooden one. Item: the day we went hunting and I cleared the huge brush hedge down near the river for the first time. My horse felt as though he had taken wing, flying over the ditch on the far side. Item: swimming in the river in summer, slipping through cool water and leaping from high boulders into deep pools. Item: my first kiss – one of the youngest of the riders from the Westfold Eored, behind the stable blocks...

To be honest it wasn't the best kiss ever, for he wasn't very good at it (nor was I, I suppose, in fairness). A bit slobbery, in fact. But I felt like the queen of the world afterwards. I was fourteen, and got into terrible trouble for "giving the housekeeper sauce" later that day. I felt so hard done by – could she not see the momentous change in me, the fact that (and here I must underline my words as my fourteen year old self would have done) I _was now a woman_? Of course she didn't, I now realise with the passage of ten years, for the simple reason that I wasn't!

At this point, of course, my imaginary audience of nieces (the ones who were so amused by the idea of their aunt's _racy behaviour –_ more underlining – _in walking unchaperoned with the Steward of Gondor, no less_ ), yes, my imaginary audience are clamouring for more information. For surely a "first kiss" suggests that there may have been more, especially if I can say that it was not a particularly good one (which rather suggests that I have since had better ones against which to compare it).

Well, yes, I have, though that is a bitter-sweet memory. When I was sixteen, I dallied with another young rider. It was all pretty innocent, mainly because the housekeeper (yes, the same housekeeper) kept an eagle eye on me. But we managed to snatch enough kisses and quite passionate embraces for me to get some sort of inkling of where such things could lead (and why the housekeeper was watching so closely). Herewerd was his name – tall, broad, with hair the colour of honey and a beard a few shades darker (which left me with the most awful rash the first time we kissed... and that was just the half of it, for he also nibbled my neck, and I had to hide the marks beneath a scarf for a whole week, lest Éomer challenge him to mortal combat).

I think I even began to build castles in the air – he would win great renown, maybe even save someone's life in battle, rise to become the youngest ever Marshal and ask for my hand in marriage.

Two months later he fell, defending his village against orcs. And he fell in vain, for the whole village was razed to the ground, even the children put to the sword.

So much for trying to call to mind pleasant memories.

And now I am back where I started, wondering why in hell's name I didn't die on the Pelennor too.

What is wrong with me? It is almost as if every time I manage to take a step forward, some black tide comes and sweeps me back again. One step forward, two steps backwards.

 **Faramir's Diary**

Still busy. Buggeration.

I wonder if I can come up with some sort of excuse to go and see Éowyn. I suppose that should be "The Lady Éowyn". But it's quite some number of days now since I stopped thinking of her as anything other than simply Éowyn.

I want to sit with her and talk, as we did so comfortably towards the end of my incarceration in the houses of healing. Play chess again. Sit beside her and watch the fire dance in the grate.

I keep imagining that instead of having to leave the houses to see to the city, I might perhaps have taken a little longer to recover. More days with Éowyn, but unclouded by fear. Days in which I could have seen whether the friendship we had managed to build could have grown into something more. Days during which I could have seen if a man of flesh and blood, beside her every day, could replace the vision of a great hero whom she could not have.

Perhaps one day as we watched the fire, I might have taken her hand and held it. Or one evening as I left, taken the opportunity to kiss her hand. Maybe the next evening I could have kissed her palm, or even the inside of her wrist. (Do they have these elaborate gradations in Rohan? Somehow I doubt it. I wonder how a man courts a woman there.)

And here's an even more embarrassing thing. It's not just that I miss her, but also that I realise that the reality of seeing her was keeping some of my more absurd (and more vivid) flights of fancy at bay. Almost as if knowing that I had to look her in the face and not blush somehow kept the brakes on my fantasies. But now... Tulkas' rod, my fantasies seem to be running away with me.


	17. April 1st

_Author's note: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. I am receiving the e-mail alerts but the reviews themselves are not showing up on the site - but please know that I am really happy to get them (and some of them are very funny, so I'm looking forward to other people being able to see them). Keep up the good work, kind and witty readers!_

 **April 1** **st**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I just reread yesterday's entry. Béma, what an idiot I sound. Mooning on about first kisses. The trouble is, I have this horrible feeling there is a reason why I've been thinking about first kisses. But it isn't the obvious one. I am not about to make a fool of myself over yet another dark haired Numenorean.

He is my friend, nothing more. I have been in love: I know what that feels like. I have been drawn to someone physically the moment I set eyes on him: I know what that feels like. This is not how it is with Faramir.

My friendship towards him crept up on me unawares, while I was not looking. At first I found him annoying. Unctuous. That was the word I used. Then gradually I realised I misjudged him. And equally gradually he began to unwind in my company, and I saw him for the man he was – kind, honourable, merciful, gentle. And, for all his scholarly precision, interesting to talk to, entertaining, even (on occasion) funny.

I find – perhaps that should be 'I found', for it is many days now since I have seen him, and I miss him – I found eventually that he was easy to talk to. We could converse for hours without covering the same ground, without getting bored, easily, almost like family members. It came to seem as though I had known him for years.

I have watched him with other people and realised he gives so much of himself, to friends, to comrades, to people he has known for a long time and to people he has only just met. He is kind and solicitous to me, but that is not because he seeks to woo me, or to impress me. It is simply his way – he is like this with all people, and somehow I find this immeasurably reassuring. He is kind to me because of his nature, not because he hopes to store up a bank of credit on his part, debt on mine, against which he can draw at a later date. All this is freely offered with no expectation of reward.

He has become my friend, not my lover. Why then do I feel so bereft that I have not seen him for several days? Why does it feel as though the bottom has dropped out of my world? Why do I feel pain, the way I felt pain when I realised that A... could never feel about me the way I felt about him? How does this pain, this loss make sense without first having felt the desire? I do not understand my feelings at all.

 **Faramir's Diary**

And yet another sod of a day. There just seems to be more to be organised than can possibly be done. Thank the Valar that two ships full of supplies finally came up Anduin from Belfalas today. It didn't stop a near riot in the second circle when the food was distributed – people are getting desperate and frightened, and desperate, frightened people do not behave rationally.

Castamir of course wanted to declare martial law and send in the Guards of the White Tower to quell the riot with as much force as possible. He was talking nonsense about hanging and quartering the ring-leaders and displaying their heads on pikes. The man is an imbecile. Does he not remember that less than a month ago the hordes of the dark lord were catapulting the heads of our soldiers into the city, to rain down upon their loved ones? And he really thinks more severed heads would be a good thing, and would help to calm the situation? He is as nasty as he is stupid.

Instead, I went down there myself with a small guard. We did indeed apprehend the ring leaders, but we got the master craftsmen from the local guilds (it is a part of the city full of leather workers, fullers, shoemakers and the like) to sit in judgement, rather than have me pass sentence. I did get a chance to speak, and encouraged them to come up with punishments involving hard labour rather than physical chastisement, labour which would be useful in rebuilding (and not in a general way, but specific tasks which would benefit the community in which the riots had taken place). It seems to have done the trick – the men have been set to work carrying slates from ruins in the outer circle which are beyond repair, and using them to repair the workshops in the second circle so that the men there can start going about their daily business.

So far, it seems a successful solution – the rioters seem to accept their punishment as just, the guildsmen are happy at the prospect of being able to get back to their businesses. And the next food shipment has been distributed without incident. Only Castamir seems unhappy (which, truth be told, I rather feel adds to my pleasure in handling the incident so well).

Anyway, it is several hours past sunset, and the candles are guttering, so I shall finally go to bed.

By all that's sacred, I miss Éowyn. Miss her so much it hurts. If only I could come up with an excuse to go to visit her once more in the houses.


	18. April 2nd

**April 2** **nd**

 **Faramir's Diary**

So now I have it. The final piece of the other jigsaw puzzle. It was not Merry that I got the information from, though he'd been the person I expected to crack first. No, it was Beregond. Beregond has been increasingly on edge every time I mentioned planning for the coronation. And now I know why. His life is forfeit, and the new King will have the power to pass a capital sentence on him. A sentence of death for saving my life.

Tulkas' Rod. I can see now why they all kept silent. Not an easy subject to broach, is it? "Oh, and by the way, your father went mad, committed suicide and tried to burn you alive into the bargain. But the good news is that at least it shows that in some odd sort of way, right at the end, he cared about you, at least a little bit. Just that the old bastard had a funny way of showing it."

At this point I'm inclined to write every obscenity I know in Quenya – and I know quite a few.

Would it have been easier or harder to know this back in the Houses of Healing? I could have moped on Éowyn. For all her prickliness, she would have been kind to me, I think. She has been a good friend. I have this ludicrous fantasy, in which I crawl into her arms and bury my face in her bosom. It's not even a lustful fantasy. I simply feel as though I would be safe there.

Maybe I should drain the dregs of Beregond's bottle of rotgut. I feel like drowning in self-pity. Son of a suicide (who almost committed filicide). Hopelessly in love with a woman who loves another. Buried beneath a mountain of work, the key part of which is rendering myself entirely superfluous to requirements. Still, I suppose all things considered, Beregond probably needs the bottle more than I.

If it is only given to me to accomplish one thing once the King returns, let it be this: that I can get him to commute Beregond's death sentence.

 **Éowyn's Diary**

The fight is gradually going out of me. Ebbing away. I have tried, gods know, I have tried, just by sheer bloody minded determination to pull myself out of this black mood. But it is not working. I have worked in the Houses, I have tried to put my mind to use learning new things, I have tried and tried, and I am just so tired I don't care any more.

Éomer wrote once more asking me to go to Cormallen. He is dropping not-so-subtle hints (mind you, when has he ever been subtle about anything?) that I might be quite suited to his new best friend, Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth. Good mother of the harvest, that's just what I need. Yet another bloody dark-haired, beak-nosed Numenorean in my life. Like I haven't had enough of those already.

At least writing that last paragraph has made me smile.


	19. April 3rd

**April 3** **rd**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

I still feel miserable – frustrated, pent-up, trapped, useless. In even more of a cage than ever. And lonely. Even Merry has gone to Cormallen. I realise now that Faramir had become my only true friend in this city of stone and without him...

And I feel hurt that he has not come to see me again, not even sent a note to enquire after my health. Of course that is ridiculous – I was a passing acquaintance, and he is busy with matters of supreme importance. But for some foolish, silly reason, I had assumed he would come to see me.

I think I even built silly castles in the air based on him kissing me on the brow – an affectionate, brotherly gesture if ever there was one, and surely not open to misinterpretation.

Gods! What has got into me? The sooner I can accompany Éomer back to the Riddermark and make something useful of my life, the better. Except that I shall be back in a cage again. A better sort of cage, without the threat of death or enslavement (and worse) hanging over me, but still a cage.

I feel so bleak that I couldn't even be bothered to go down to the main hall to help Ioreth. I have spent most of the day lying on my bed staring at the ceiling. It's as if, after all these days of trying to force myself to fill the days, to try to be positive, I have completely run dry. I simply cannot find it in myself to try any longer.

Ioreth came to see why I had not shown my face. I don't think she approves of my sudden attack of weakness of the will. She pursed her lips and said she needed to go to talk to the warden.

 **Faramir's Diary**

I am hungover. Yes, I finished Beregond's bottle of rotgut last night. I can now report with complete certainty that it does not help in the slightest with the paperwork. Nor does it help with my emotional turmoil. But at the moment, the paperwork is a more pressing problem. The emotional turmoil I can deal with in the way I have always dealt with it – by ignoring it until it goes away.

My black mood was broken up by an unexpected visitor. Lady Galwien, wife of my cousin Elphir. It turns out that she, my cousin Lothi, and her mother, my aunt Isteth, all arrived at Harlond yesterday – but Lothi and my aunt have gone straight to Cormallen. Galwien, nearing the end of her sixth month with her second child, has decided to stay in Minas Tirith rather than risking a journey by wagon to Cormallen. We exchanged pleasantries, and the social niceties were observed – not easy with a headache this bad. I wonder whether my letter to Lothi is waiting for her on arrival. I feel doubly embarrassed by it now – embarrassed to having confessed my feelings, and embarrassed that they are entirely pointless, now I know the rest of Éowyn's story. I hope the worst of my misery has worn off before I see Lothi in person. She will laugh at me roundly, and at the moment everything is too raw for me to take that in good part.


	20. April 4th

**April 4** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

Ioreth brought the warden to visit me. He spent a long time talking to me. Asked me to read through this diary – not aloud (thank heavens) but to myself, with a view to describing to him how my moods had been over the period since I started writing. How they had gone up and down with time. He listened in silence, not trying to fill the gaps when I paused for thought.

Eventually, once I had finished, he steepled his fingers and gave his assessment. The black breath was indeed at work, and it was beyond the normal remedies of time, rest and distraction to throw off. A herbal remedy must be sought – one which was quite powerful, but not without unwelcome side effects. An oil, distilled from a flower, _yellowstar_ , of considerable efficacy in helping people where the malaise of the soul had taken deep roots. Though apparently, I might suffer "certain gastric disturbances" (which I think is a Gondorian euphemism for getting the shits) and might have headaches and a dry mouth.

While he went to get the remedy, I sat and talked to Ioreth. I talked about how throwing myself into work in the houses helped a bit, how I got a great deal of satisfaction from learning about herbs, and medicine, and the arts of healing. But how I wasn't sure if I was using it as a distraction or whether I genuinely thirsted after knowledge. And she in turn talked about her calling as a healer, how she felt about what she did, how she had known from early in her life that this was what she wanted to do. But also how it was not so for everyone – some of those working in the houses happened upon healing almost by accident, then discovered they had a talent for it, and it grew in importance in their lives.

I wondered about this. I'm not sure I feel like either particularly. I certainly don't feel like the first. As for growing into it, well, I'm not even sure whether I'm doing it because I have happened upon something that can become really important to me, or whether I just desperately need something to fill my days. Anyway, Ioreth talked on about the various aspects of the healer's art, until the warden returned. He brought a flagon of oily liquid, which he offered to me on a spoon, and I dutifully drank it, like a small child drinking their rosehip syrup in winter. Then the warden and Ioreth bade me rest, and withdrew.

Now I'm sitting here, quill drooping between my fingers, as the draft of _yellowstar_ takes effect. It's been mixed with some kind of sedative (they told me this – one of the things I like about the warden and Ioreth is that they seem to take telling the patient honestly about things as almost an oath-like act). So I feel myself drifting, and oddly, feel my thought processes loosened and uninhibited.

And my thoughts, annoyingly, or inevitably, or perhaps necessarily, have drifted to the Steward. Somehow I suddenly feel as though it is of crucial importance to decide whether my friendship with him was simply a desperate attempt to grasp any diversion from my fey moods, or whether, fey mood aside, I formed a real friendship. I can't quite pin down why it matters to answer this question, but I have this burning need to do so. And I can't quite do it. And strangely (because my thought processes are getting all tangled) it seems to be getting muddled in my mind with Ioreth's thoughts on why one might become a healer.

Am I seeking what looks like an escape from a cage, only to find that it leads into another? Or am I being offered a chance to take flight to freedom? And why should I think about my friendship with the steward thus?

I can feel my eyelids getting heavier. Really I should move to the bed. But it seems such a long way away.

My mind is back on Faramir again: there's a nagging thought there, a voice saying "it's not just friendship, is it?", a voice reminding me of his tall, lean, warrior's figure when I looked from the walls, of his rare smiles, of the way his eyes twinkle with mischief sometimes, that habit he has of running his hand through his dark hair when he's thinking. And…

 _[There follows a long inky streak, ending in a large blot.]_

 **Faramir's Diary**

Another, and most unexpected visit. The warden of the houses of healing has just been to see me. He seems extremely worried about the Lady Éowyn – he fears she is having some sort of relapse and is in danger of succumbing once more to the black breath. Apparently she is melancholy and depressed. Valar, I am a blithering fool. Here I was dwelling in maudlin detail on my own feelings, as though they mattered a damn. What matters is that she is my friend, and I should stand upon that friendship and help her.

I am very worried about her. I do not wish her to fall into despair again, and I worry that she may do something foolish. After all, when I first me her she admitted that she wished to ride to her death in battle. If she is back in that fey mood, Nienna help us. She may do something foolish indeed. It is far too late to go there tonight – they would not let me in. (Though I fear I won't get much sleep here, for fretting.) I shall go to visit her tomorrow.


	21. April 5th

**April 5** **th**

 **Éowyn's Diary**

Béma, I can't remember the last time I slept this long. I'm not sure if the yellowstar has lifted my mood, or whether the sedative and resulting sleep (dreamless for once, thank the gods) has done the trick. But I don't feel quite as miserable as I have for the last few days. Though whether this is genuine or not I'm not sure. I also feel a bit of a headache, as one might from too much ale, and also curiously detached from the world, as if either I, or it, was wrapped in a layer of wool. Very strange. But it is a blessed relief not to feel wrapped in a black cloud.

I'm looking back on what I wrote last night. What a rambling load of nonsense. It would appear that the draught had a certain disinhibiting effect. But what am I to make of my nonsense? A case of herb induced confusion, or an example of the fact that a man (or woman) may sometimes utter truth when in their cups?

One thing I don't think I can hide from any more is the fact that I agree with Ioreth's maid: Faramir is a very attractive man. But I don't want to feel that way. I don't want to make an idiot of myself. I've done that all too recently. And I don't want to lose his friendship – if we still have a friendship, that is. I haven't seen the man in days, after all, so perhaps he thought simply of our time here as a chance acquaintanceship between two people thrown together by circumstance. One which soothed a difficult period while we convalesced, then was quickly forgotten about when more pressing matters came to the fore.

Oh dear, I must pull myself together. This will not do at all.

But I hear footsteps in the corridor. Dame Ioreth's, if I recognise that determined stomp! I'd best put this back in the drawer and find out what she wants.

 **...**

What did I feel, that moment when he asked me? I remember his question: "Do you love me, or will you not?" I felt overwhelmed by something – confusion, mainly. It is not a new sense of confusion – I know I have been writing of my confusion for days now. And I have spent many of those days trying to convince myself that he puzzling thing was the intensity with which I felt his absence. It confused me because I'd spent so long trying to convince myself I saw him as a friend, rather than loving him as – well, I suppose as a lover. It was only this morning that I finally allowed myself to admit that I was attracted to him as a man. But I still did not know what to make of that.

And now, with his question, it was as if he had seen inside my head, seen the confusion that lived there. "Will you love me, or do you love another?" Then it came to me that I could simply let him sooth that confusion away – that if I agreed to be his wife, he would, with time and gentleness, make me content to be his wife. And so I agreed, still not knowing how to resolve my confusion, but trusting to him to help me in some way. I shall never forget the look of delight on his face.

For a moment I felt a pang of guilt. Surely that delight, that... well, it's finally clear to me that he loves me, that his words are not just flowery platitudes... Where did that come from? I had no idea he felt that way, but clearly he did, he does. And equally clearly – he deserved – he deserves more than the vague hope that his wife might one day grow to feel a quiet contentment.

I think it was that sudden stab of guilt that moved me to make light of my confusion. So I joked about whether Faramir could cope with the people of Gondor asking why he had chosen to tame a wild shieldmaiden of the north. And his mood seemed to shift too – suddenly there it was, that glint of mischief in his eyes that I'd seen before, half hidden up till this moment, but now quite unashamed. He gave that smile of his, and said, very simply, that he could. All the time he looked at me, sharing in the joke, eyes twinkling at the unlikely thought. And also looking very much as though the idea of a wild shieldmaiden pleased him in all sorts of ways and to an extent which… well, the look in his eyes made my cheeks burn. But in a good way. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the feeling I'd been simultaneously trying to identify and hide from over the last few days: desire. I stepped forwards towards him and put my hands on his shoulders. I have a feeling he thinks he was the one who kissed me… but really, I think in all honesty that probably it was me who started it. Or gave an invitation so clear that even a man as reticent as Faramir couldn't miss it. In any case, he bent his head towards mine.

And in that instant everything changed. I had thought before that I knew what desire was. I was wrong. As he touched me, as his arms went round me, as his lips met mine, I found that I desired him with every fibre of my being, totally and utterly. There was a need for him, for his touch, that I had never imagined. I did not know until then that one could be undone and completely remade by such a simple thing as a kiss. I did not know that desire could be so strong. That desire could become almost a physical, solid thing. That it could drive a yearning to become so close to another person that you could merge into one being. And then I knew, knew with a certainty so strong that I could not now see how I had ever failed to see.

 **Faramir's Diary**

She will be my wife! I am still not quite sure how I got her to agree, but I know that I am the happiest man on earth.

I should back-track a little, and admit that I had some help, or at least a nudge in the right direction. When I arrived at the house, the warden looked immensely relieved that I had come. He suggested I wait for Éowyn on the walls, and sent Dame Ioreth to fetch her. As Ioreth and I walked down the corridor from the warden's room, she looked at me and said "The lady has missed you, you know." I said that I had missed her, and that her friendship had become immensely valuable to me. To which she replied that she supposed I thought her (Ioreth, that is) a dull, prattling old woman, but that while dull old women might be getting a bit short sighted they weren't completely blind. I was rather taken aback and asked what on earth she meant. Dame Ioreth replied that it was plain as a pikestaff to her that I had been smitten with the lady since the moment I set eyes on her, but that what I appeared not to have noticed was that the lady felt the same way about me, and that if I didn't stop shilly-shallying around (that was her exact expression) I was in danger of letting the most precious chance ever offered to me in my life slip through my fingers. Then with a vague harrumphing noise, she disappeared up the stair case which led to the women's quarters within the houses.

I made my way to the walls feeling completely floored by this information. Amazed, disbelieving and at the same time elated – and as terrified as ever I had on the eve of battle. But Ioreth's words did the trick. I finally did what my imagined shade of my brother thought was such a stupid idea – told Éowyn exactly how I felt about her, and asked if there was any chance she could feel the same, then asked whether she would marry me.

Admittedly when she first agreed she looked somewhat stunned – poleaxed almost – by her own decision. Then she joked about taming wild shieldmaidens from the north, and I couldn't resist it. I kissed her – not a chaste, courtly kiss, but rather the sort of kiss that I have been dreaming about.

And I was right – she loves as she fights, with a fire and passion. It started with me kissing her, but very rapidly became us kissing each other.

And when we finally parted, she looked stunned – but a different kind of stunned. A much better sort of stunned. A sort of stunned that said she was seeing me for the first time as her lover rather than her friend, and that she liked what she saw.

Then it dawned on me that we had kissed each other – kissed each other as if we intended to get an heir to the house of Hurin right there on that very spot at that very moment – in front of THE WHOLE BLOODY CITY!

And do you know what? By all the Valar, I don't bloody care. She will be my wife and that is the only thing in the whole world that matters to me right now.

~o~ The End ~o~

 _Author's note: Firstly, thank you to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for encouragement, and many helpful comments on earlier drafts of this. (Remaining mistakes are of course mine). And thanks to Tommy Ginger whose comment about "getting an heir to the house of Hurin right there and then" I have stolen (she made the comment originally in connection with Catherine Chmiel's absolutely wonderful drawing of the kiss on the walls)._

 _The next episode in this set of pieces will be posted within the next week or so – it is time to see how Éomer is getting on at the field of Cormallen! And after that, I may well pick up this again, and write a sequel in terms of more diary entries and letters detailing the period between now and the events of Whenas in Silks._

 _Finally, thank you to all of you who have left encouraging comments. They make such a difference to me as a writer._


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